


It makes such an almighty sound

by lesbianjackrackham



Series: lungs [2]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, everyone is a fucking disaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 02:12:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13649280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianjackrackham/pseuds/lesbianjackrackham
Summary: Goddard Futuristics Company Christmas Party, 2013.(An interlude in the Doug Eiffel joins SI-5 AU)





	It makes such an almighty sound

Apparently Goddard Futuristics has a company holiday party. It’s as weird as he expects.

And really, if Maxwell and Jacobi had _told him_ that they were trying to get out of it, he would have played along, but then Kepler calls them all into the office and goes on and on about how _Eiffel_ was the only one to RSVP yes, (only because he didn’t realize he maybe had another choice!) so they shoot daggers at him for the rest of the afternoon until he agrees to help them track down proper cocktail party attire.

Neither Maxwell or Jacobi have been inside of a shopping mall before. It’s... an experience, to say the least.

And to be fair, Eiffel never had to bribe a security guard to let them in after hours before, but working for SI-5 comes with all kinds of new and exciting challenges.

They make it by 21:07 hours, fashionable and fashionably late, where the party is in full swing. It’s in a part of the base Eiffel hadn't been before, a large room that looks like an airplane hanger fully decked out in red and green and all kinds of sparkly tinsel. There are twelve foot tall pine trees scattered around the room, and when he gets closer he sees that they’re animatronic, lights changing with the music, and he’d be impressed if it didn’t give him a headache.

There are maybe three hundred people people in the room, and Eiffel loses track of Maxwell and Jacobi immediately. He finds refuge against the wall and wishes he had a watch so he could figure out an appropriate time to leave.

After about twenty minutes, he sees Maxwell push through the crowd towards him. She shoves a plastic cup in his hand.

“Here,” she says. “Non-alcoholic eggnog.”

“Really? Wow, thanks.” He sniffs it. “Wait, isn’t this just milk and eggs then?”

“Yeah.”

“...Isn’t that kind of gross?”

“It’s eggnog. It’s gross even with bourbon in it.”

“Yeah, but at least it has bourbon in it.”

“Fair enough.” He takes a sip—it’s sweet, almost too much so, but it’s something to do while he scans the crowd. After a few seconds of silence he spots Jacobi, laughing with a guy Eiffel doesn’t recognize. He nudges Maxwell.

“Hey, who’s that with Jacobi?”

“Ethan Klein. You’ve met?” Eiffel shakes his head. “We’ve gone out with him a few times.”

“I don’t really talk with people when we go out.”

“Yeah, we’ve noticed.” He shrugs, and then clears his throat.

“Are they…”

“Yeah,” says Maxwell. “They have. I don’t know what’s going on with them right now. Also, I’m not gossiping about my best friend, or getting involved in whatever kind of weird… _whatever_ , you two have going on.”

“Fair enough.”

“If it wasn’t totally gross, I’d actually be jealous.”

“Of what?”

Maxwell pauses. “I don’t know. It’s weird feeling left out of something you don’t actually want.”

“To be perfect honestly, Jacobi and I haven’t, uh. Really.”

“Really?”

“Not since the summer.” Not like Eiffel hasn’t given him plenty of opportunities to. He’s even gone back out with them to the club, danced too, but next to Jacobi, not _with_ him. They touch, sure—on the dance floor, at work, at Maxwell’s place playing games or watching movies or building battlebots, but aside from a a few brief brushes of skin, neither of them has made a move.

And he’s not going to be the one to break the détente. Daniel is the one who walked out on him, after all.

Things are weird with Kepler too. He touches Eiffel less, and when he does it’s more intentional, like pulling him out of the line of fire or taking something that Eiffel wasn’t handing over quick enough. He hates that he misses it, and in the past three months they’ve only… hooked up isn’t right, but _jerked him off twice_ sounds too clinical and one-sided, and Eiffel is back to not understanding his boss, so he’s frustrated, sexually and otherwise.

He takes another sip from the eggnog, forgetting for a moment that it’s not spiked. When he looks over, Maxwell is staring at him.

“Huh,” she says.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What I’m saying, is you’re not being left out of anything,” he says, and it comes out more sour than he intended.

“Even after movie nights?”

“I go home and go to sleep. Alone.”

“But— oh man, that makes sense.”

“What?”

“I’ve been kicking Daniel out because I assumed…”

“Oh. _Ohh_. Thanks, I guess?”

“I thought you were trying to be subtle.”

“So subtle that it’s not even happening.”

“We could have been having sleepovers this whole time,” she mutters, and Eiffel laughs.

They go back to watching Daniel. He’s drunk, loose and friendly with Klein, and for all of his complaining earlier he looks like he’s having fun, laughing at something that Klein said and leaning into his space. Klein puts his hand out and gently pushes Daniel back, and Eiffel takes some sick pleasure in it, hiding his face in the eggnog.

“Klein’s on the Hermes mission,” says Maxwell. “They leave in a few weeks.”

“Deep space?”

“Yep.”

“Huh. I wonder what that’s like.”

Daniel’s raised his voice, and even across the room they can hear him say _it’s not like I_ and _anything different_ , and Maxwell sighs and hands him her drink.

“I better—”

“Yeah.” He watches her move swiftly to them, and within a few seconds has Daniel out of the room. Klein catches him staring and Eiffel waves, unperturbed, and goes back to his drink.

A minute or so later he wishes he hadn’t dismissed Klein, now that he’s left standing alone against the wall like the ugly girl at prom, and there’s a group of people he doesn’t know stopped in front of the snack table, like an unwelcoming, chattering wall separating everyone from mediocre pastries. He doesn’t know when he became this guy, someone who would let people come between him and food, but he’s holding two cups and he can’t remember which one was alcoholic and which wasn’t, but he also doesn’t want to be the guy who abandons two nearly full cups at the table.

Maybe he should have gone with Maxwell. He wonders if they’ve left completely, slipped out a side door. He wonders if he can leave too.

“Douglas! How are you this evening?” He jumps at the hand on his shoulder, nearly spilling the drinks, and turns to see a man with weirdly perfect skin smiling at him.

“Uh, fine. Thanks.” The stranger takes his hand off after a second too long, and Eiffel resists the urge to step away. He scans through his memory for a name, but can’t think of anything. “And you?”

“Just wonderful. I love to see everyone intermingling. Getting out of their offices or their labs and talking to each other. People spend too much time in front of their computers these days, wouldn’t you say?”

“Sure.” Eiffel wishes he had something better to say, wishes he could take a sip of eggnog to stall for time, but he still doesn’t know which cup was his. Meanwhile, the man is still smiling at him. “Uh, I’m really sorry, but—”

“Oh, of course! We haven’t met in person yet, but I’m a big fan of your work. Marcus Cutter. A pleasure to meet you.”

 _Oh shit_ , thinks Eiffel.

“Likewise, uh, sir,” he says, trying to remember everything the others had said about him. Cutter doesn’t look like evil incarnate, but this is Goddard Futuristics. Most of the evil is hiding in plain sight.

“How are you liking things here at Goddard?”

“Uh, great, sir.”

“You’re finding the work fulfilling? Getting along with your team?”

“Uh huh.”

“But let’s not talk about work right now. It’s a party, after all!” Cutter gestures at the cups in his hand. “I can see you’re enjoying yourself.”

“They’re not both mine. I’m holding one for, uh, Dr. Maxwell.”

“Ah, Alana. How is she? I haven’t seen her yet this evening.”

“She just stepped out. To freshen... her nose. Powder her nose.”

“Hm. And Daniel?”

“With her, I think.”

“Powdering Alana’s nose?”

Eiffel says “uh,” and then Cutter laughs, throwing his head back.

“Oh, Doug. Warren didn’t tell me you were _funny_.” Cutter leans in with a wide sharp smile, and the little alarm in Eiffel’s head yelling _Danger! Danger!_ gets a little louder, while a quieter, more aggressive voice muses, _seriously what is it with people here and personal space._

“Excuse me, Mr. Cutter,” says Kepler, appearing at Eiffel’s elbow, and he doesn’t jump but he makes a mental note to work on this whole _‘I’m a spy but people keep sneaking up on me,’ thing._

“Warren!” Cutter says, delighted. “We were just talking about you. You’ve been hiding this charming young man from me, haven’t you?”

“Just getting Mr. Eiffel here up to speed.”

“Hmm, of course. Did you need something, Warren?”

“Me? No. But Miss Young was looking for you. Something about a Santa costume?”

“Oh! Well, she nearly _ruined_ the surprise by telling you about it.” Cutter looks back at Doug, and he catches a flutter of something dark pass across Cutter’s face. “Doug, can you keep a secret?”

“Oh course. Sir.”

“Wonderful. Well. I better go take care of that. Doug. Warren. Merry Christmas.” Cutter disappears into the crowd and Eiffel is unable to track him. When he looks back at Kepler, the other man is starting to move away.

“Wait,” he says, and then immediately regrets it because he has nothing else to say.

(That’s a lie, he has a lot to say, like “thanks” and “was there really an issue with a Santa suit?” and “don’t leave. It’s my birthday and I don’t have anywhere else to be or anyone to spend it with, and if it can’t be, I don’t know, the four of us and some pizza, maybe it can be the four of us here, but I don’t know where Daniel and Alana went. I’m remembering what it feels like to be lonely, and that’s your fault, for bringing me here, for giving me this. Please don’t take it away. Don’t leave.”)

He doesn’t say any of that. He can’t say any of that. But Kepler comes back and leans against the wall next to him and Eiffel lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

They stand there in silence, watching the crowd. Holly Jolly Christmas plays for what feels like the tenth time, even though he knows they’ve only been at the party for less than an hour. He has the stupid urge to touch Kepler, and even more so he wants to put the cups down. Eiffel gives in to the second one, leans down and places them against the wall and hopes no one (himself, he’s talking about himself) knocks them over.

“Why have the Christmas party on Christmas Eve?” He asks, and Kepler, to his absolute surprise, laughs.

“Eiffel, do you think anyone here has someplace else to be?” He doesn’t have a good response to that, so he just looks at Kepler, drowns out the rest of the party by studying the man’s well cut blazer over a shirt with light red stripes, his concession to the holiday spirit. He knows Kepler knows he’s studying him, and Eiffel, even though they’re standing far enough apart that there’s room for Jesus, is close enough to see a hint of bemusement in his eyes.

He thinks, _what if he looked over at me right now, right now, if he looked over at me, and looked me in the eyes._

Kepler looks at him, and for a second Eiffel stops breathing. Then Kepler looks past him, and when he turns Maxwell and Jacobi are there.

“There you are!” Maxwell says, dragging Jacobi behind here.

“I haven’t left this spot,” says Eiffel, and Maxwell glares at him.

“Not you. Major, can we leave yet? It’s been an hour.”

“Did you spend any part of the hour socializing?”

“Yes.”

“With anyone other than these two?”

“I talked to the Hermes crew. So did Daniel.” Kepler sets his jaw, tries to stare her down but Maxwell just stares back. Daniel looks half asleep.

“Fine,” he says, pushing away from the wall. “Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you, Major,” says Maxwell, in a little sing-songy voice, and then she pokes Eiffel and Jacobi.

“Thanks, Major,” says Eiffel, and Jacobi mumbles something unintelligible. Maxwell shoves Jacobi into Eiffel’s arms, and when he raises an eyebrow at her she gives him a face that clearly states _I’ve been babysitting him all night and my arms are tired_ , so he throws one of Jacobi’s arms over his shoulder and tugs him along by his waist.

“How much eggnog did he have?” He asks as they make their way towards the door.

“...He stole Kepler’s flask,” Maxwell admits, and Eiffel groans.

“Why do I have the feeling we’re all going to get in trouble for that?” They’re almost out, when Jacobi starts pulling away from him. “Come on man. What?”

“Mistletoe!” Jacobi blurts out. He grabs Eiffel by his hair and pulls him down into a kiss.

It’s bad. Jacobi nearly misses his mouth entirely and scrapes his teeth against Eiffel’s cheek, but when he tries to pull away Jacobi corrects the maneuver and kisses him properly, warm and firm, and his tongue nudges at Eiffel’s lips. Eiffel, who still has one arm wrapped around Jacobi’s waist, kisses him back.

Then Jacobi pulls back, panting and says, “shit, I wanna,” and Eiffel shakes his head.

“You’re drunk,” he says, but he doesn’t let Jacobi go. He wants to kiss him again, in front of the entire company, but he doesn’t. Jacobi groans and buries his face in Eiffel’s shirt.

Maxwell says, “I fucking hate you both.”

“Alana…” Jacobi whines, and he lifts his head up but doesn’t untangle himself from Eiffel’s arms and leaves his hand in Eiffel’s hair. Eiffel looks over at Maxwell and raises an eyebrow.

“Sleepover?”

“Ugh, fine,” she says, and digs the valet ticket out of Eiffel’s pocket. While Maxwell jogs ahead to get the car, Eiffel carefully drags Jacobi towards the entrance, a strange little two step against the fading Christmas music. Jacobi still hasn’t let go of him, content to balance in Eiffel’s arms, and Eiffel is happy to have him there.

Later, they fight over whether Die Hard counts as a Christmas movie (it does), whether Elf is the best Christmas movie, (it is, but he loses 2 to 1; Jacobi votes for Home Alone and Maxwell votes for The Nightmare Before Christmas) and then fall asleep after breaking into the NORAD Santa Tracker to calculate how fast Santa would have to be traveling to reach every house on time, and if Santa is actually a Goddard invention (probably.)

On the futon he’s nearly smothered by both Jacobi and Maxwell, but it’s not the worst birthday he’s ever had.

**Author's Note:**

> find me at @lesbianjackrackham on tumblr!


End file.
